


The Kid at the Crime Scene

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Relationships, Dysfunctional Family, Episode: s01e01 Wolf Moon, Episode: s01e12 Code Breaker, Episode: s02e07 Restraint, Episode: s03e12 Lunar Ellipse, Episode: s03e19 Letharia Vulpina, Episode: s04e07 Weaponized, Gen, Missing Scene, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2114298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times that Stiles gave false statements and one time he told the whole truth. Sheriff Stilinski POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a TW fic, so go easy on me. It's going to be comprised of six Stilinski family vignettes when it's done and I'm writing them on the fly right now so I thought I may as well start posting. All of these pieces will be on the theme of Stiles telling lies at crime scenes before finally telling the truth. This first one is set right at the start of 'Wolf Moon' and then I'll be writing missing scenes/codas from the episodes 'Code Breaker', 'Restraint', 'Lunar Ellipse', 'Letharia Vulpina' and 'Weaponized'. Hmm. Let's see how I get on...

**1.**

The Sheriff didn’t release his hold on his son’s hood until they reached the car.

Naturally the old blue jeep was parked right in front of the chained barrier warning trespassers to stay the hell out of the woods after nightfall. Stilinski spun Stiles around to face him, opened his mouth for a lecture and then simply froze, wondering if there was anything new he could say that would deter his kid from following him out to future crime scenes. They had caught Stiles ducking under police tape so many times now that one of Stilinski’s deputies had joked about keeping him in a holding cell so they could finish up forensics without him stealing any evidence. On nights like these Stilinski seriously wanted to know if he could get away with putting that idea into practice.

“Get your ass home,” said Stilinski, his tone stern and his finger raised in Stiles’ face, as was his habit for all the good it ever did. “If I don’t find you in bed asleep when I get back then I may be sending you to military school tomorrow morning.”

Stiles nodded but the nod just seemed like an automatic reflex of his neck rather than a sincere show of obedience. Stiles' eyes were still fixed on the woods behind them, his pupils darting everywhere and seeming desperate to be the first to catch sight of the dead girl’s remains. Stilinski was accustomed to his son’s little distracted moments, but right now he needed his full attention. This was very likely a  _murder_ he was investigating and a murder that had left its victim in more than one piece at that.

“Stiles!” Stilinski barked, seizing his son’s jacket again. “Are you listening?”

Stiles blinked, snapping back into focus, a smile leaping onto his face. “Sure thing, dad. So did your guys or the State Troopers find anything yet?”

Stilinski narrowed his eyes. When Stiles was in trouble his typical defense mechanism was to act as if he really wasn’t in any trouble at all. As if he wasn’t on the brink of being grounded till he reached legal adulthood. Stiles stood smirking like he and his dad were just palling around here and Stilinski nearly fell for it (like he _always_ fell for it) because being pals with his son was all he ever wanted these days. He knew Stiles was trying to coax him into letting his guard down. He caught himself just in time.  

“Stiles, if we’d found anything that would be classified police information. Just like my calls from dispatch are classified information. Now shut up and get in the car.” 

“Fine... _fine_!" Stiles blurted, then in a quieter voice he added. "I was just trying to help.” 

Stilinski sighed, feeling like that last part wasn’t a total lie. His son was a meticulous snoop with a morbid fascination and busy brain that was perfectly tuned to mystery solving. One day those qualities could make him a great little detective. And shouldn’t any father be thrilled with a child who wants to follow in their footsteps? Stilinski wanted that so badly but most of the time he didn’t dare let on. Because Stiles wasn’t a rookie cop in training. He was a reckless teenager stumbling around in the dark armed with nothing but a flashlight, making it that much easier for wild animals and would-be psychokillers to prey on him.    

The Sheriff hissed in frustration and caught Stiles by the arm before he climbed into his jeep.  

“Kid, seriously,” he said, his voice softening. “I don’t know what we’re dealing with here but I do know this was no ordinary attack. You...you don’t want to see what was done to that girl. And I don’t want to see _you_ running around these woods while whoever or _whatever_ did this to her is still on the loose.”

He stopped and drew in a sharp breath. He felt sure just having this conversation was taking a toll on his blood pressure. Stiles seemed to sense his barely-clamped-down worry. His stare had finally settled on his father's face and his lips were pinched with what Stilinski hoped was remorse.

“Now if you sneak out the house...” the Sheriff pressed on, “...and if you stupidly get yourself murdered, then who is responsible for that?"

Stiles shrugged. "The murderer?"

"No! I mean, yeah...technically. But I'm the one who'd be blaming myself for not being a strict enough parent and for not installing those locks on your bedroom door and bars on your windows like I always thought I should've. You understand? You're my responsibility. But Stiles, if you had succeeded in dragging Scott out of his house and if Scott had been attacked or _worse_ then that’s...”

“...then that’d be my responsibility,” said Stiles, finishing his sentence. “Yeah dad, I get it.”  

Stiles was shifting his weight nervously now, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. That was when the Sheriff realized that Stiles wasn’t actually scanning the tree line for the dead body any more. Stiles was trying to catch sight of his friend...his friend who was likely still hiding somewhere in the shadows of the woods. 

The Sheriff frowned. “Stiles, I’ll ask you this one last time - is Scott’s still out here?”

“What?!” Stiles spluttered. “No, I told you. Scott’s tucked up in bed dreaming that he’s going to magically get better at lacrosse this semester. Good old Scotty.”   

Stiles forced a smile again but he couldn’t keep the tremor out of his voice. The Sheriff thought his son might be realizing that he had gone too far with this latest escapade, but he was still stubbornly keeping his regret to himself. _Why do kids do that?_   Stilinski thought. _They get caught in mud and they just dig their heels in deeper._

Stilinski resisted the urge to shake a confession out of Stiles and instead hoped that Scott would have the sense that his son lacked to hurry home immediately. The McCall house wasn’t too far away in walking distance. If Scott made it back safe then maybe he wouldn’t have to make a phone call to Melissa to apologize (yet again) for his kid being a bad influence on hers or even suggest that they ban the two of them from seeing each other. It was a bit of discipline they had tried once before when the boys were around ten and Stiles had stolen a pack of cigarettes which had led to Scott suffering a nasty asthma attack when they’d tried to smoke them all in one go. They had managed to keep their kids apart for all of two days before Melissa had called the Sheriff back to say that Scott was on hunger strike and refusing to speak to her until she let him have his friend back. They really didn’t have the heart to separate the boys for long. They always looked so lost without each other.     

The Sheriff could see that same lost look in Stiles’ eyes now as he reluctantly backed his jeep out of the Beacon Hills Reserve. The Sheriff sighed and reached for his radio.

"It's Stilinski. I'm headed back to the scene. And could you all please be aware that we may have more than one stupid kid roaming our perimeter..."  

 


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

The Sheriff had planned on getting Stiles’ statement over breakfast.

He’d been so caught up in closing the old case of the Hale house fire with its links to the new case of the Argent woman’s murder that admittedly it had taken him a while to get around to the witness reports on the Martin girl’s attack. But Stilinski thought it would be easy enough to question Stiles at home, only to find himself staring at his son’s empty bed on Sunday morning. When he had called Melissa he learned that Stiles wasn’t sleeping over at the McCall house either. Melissa had let him know that Stiles had spent the last two nights in the hospital waiting room, holding vigil outside the Lydia girl’s room.

“Stiles...Stiles, wake up. What the hell are you doing?”

Stilinski swatted the ‘Get Well’ balloon that was tied to one of the chairs that Stiles was sprawled across. Stiles blinked and startled, almost tumbling to the floor. He rubbed his eyes.

“Huh? Who?” he spluttered. “Oh...hey dad. How’s tricks?”

“Stiles, what are you doing sleeping at the hospital?”

“I...I’m checking on Lydia...” He muttered, stifling a yawn. “The doctors don’t mind. I’ve slept over at the hospital before.”

The Sheriff grimaced, nudging Stiles' feet so he could sit down in the seat beside him. It was true that during the weeks when Claudia had been too sick to be cared for at home and the Sheriff had been working extra night-shifts to cover her mounting medical expenses, Melissa and her team of nurses had very kindly offered to supervise his increasingly hyperactive eight year old so he didn’t have to pay for a child minder too. In the time that his mother was at the hospital, Stiles had adjusted to eating out of vending machines and sleeping in the brightly-lit waiting rooms, though his gangly legs no longer fit comfortably over the arms of the chairs.

“Melissa said the girl is doing fine now,” said Stilinski. “She just needs to recover from the blood loss and then her parents will be taking her home. You don’t need to be here, kiddo.”

“I just want to be sure there are no new, um...” Stiles winced, “... _developments_. No more of her allergic reactions, you know. Besides, I need to make up for...for leaving her.”

Stilinski frowned. He still wasn’t sure what this girl meant to Stiles. She wasn't actually his girlfriend as far as Stilinski could tell. He didn’t like to say she was out of his league, but he knew she’d been dating that Jackson kid, the lacrosse star with the Porsche and the cheekbones only a few weeks ago. Apparently they had broken up since (hard to keep up with these kids). Lydia was also good friends with Allison who had dragged Stiles out dress shopping a few days ago. So he figured Allison had fixed the two of them up.

“About that...” the Sheriff began tentatively. “I’m going to need an official witness statement from you...telling me everything you know about her attack.”

“Dad, I already told you,” said Stiles, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t there. I didn’t see anything. She left me on the dance floor to go look for Jackson.”

“But Jackson said _you_ were the one who found her,” Stilinski persisted. “When we took his statement earlier he said you called him to say that Lydia was hurt. But then when he got to the field, you were gone.” He lowered his voice and hissed. “You also missed a good twenty messages from me asking where the hell you were!”

“I lost the keys to my jeep,” Stiles repeated wearily. “I had to run to the hospital. I think I accidentally turned my phone off too. I’m sorry.”

“Stiles, but why did you...” He hesitated, because this was the question that was really troubling him and he was fearful of the answer. “Why didn’t you stay with the girl? Why didn’t you stay with her and wait for the ambulance?”

Stiles squirmed in his seat. “Isn’t it obvious?” He flushed and hung his head. “I had a panic attack, dad. A bad one, like I used to get. When I found her on the field and I saw the blood, I just freaked...I ran back to the school, straight for the bathroom, sure I was going to puke. And I’m not proud of it, alright? But...you know how squeamish I am.”

Stilinski nodded and dutifully took down notes, but something still wasn’t right here. It was true that Stiles could be a fainter. He still remembered how Stiles would turn pale over every needle they jabbed into his mom’s arm, how he would panic over her nosebleeds, how he would cry over every last one of her memories withering away...it had all terrified him. It had all fed into the nightmares and anxiety attacks that he'd suffered with during the months following Claudia’s death.

But Stiles had still never asked to leave his mom's bedside. In fact, there had been one time during an emergency procedure that two nurses had needed to drag Stiles out of her room, kicking and screaming. Stiles hadn’t wanted to leave his mother when she was slipping away from them, not even for a minute. Not even if he was panicking, puking or passing out over what was happening to her. 

The child therapists had called it hyper-vigilance. The Sheriff felt like he was seeing the familiar symptoms of it again as Stiles stared over at the door of the Martin girl’s room. And he couldn’t believe that Stiles would have left her either.

“But you had your senses together enough to call Jackson?” Stilinski pointed out.

Stiles shrugged again. “I figured he’d do a better job of taking care of her.”

The Sheriff didn’t miss the bitterness in his voice. If Stiles was lying to him then this was a lie it sickened him to tell. _And why would the kid lie about this anyway?_ It just didn’t add up. Stiles always knew where his keys were. He hated it when people turned their phones off. He would've stayed with Lydia Martin no matter what. Stiles might still let out startled shrieks when they watched horror movies together, but he wasn't a coward. He'd braved so many real horrors already in his young life. 

Unless...unless something else had happened. Unless someone else was there. Someone who could have made Stiles leave and made him not tell. Unless Stiles was trying to handle this alone. Stilinski had dealt with a lot of witnesses who had been threatened into keeping silent. He could only hope that he wasn’t dealing with one such witness now.

“Alright, that’ll do for the time being...” said the Sheriff, closing his notepad. “I’ve got to get back to the station. And you need to get home. I know you might feel... _responsible_ for this girl, but...it wasn’t your fault, Stiles. Whatever happened to her, it’s not your fault. Understand?”

Stiles nodded stiffly and sank lower in his chair, twisting the string of his balloon in his fingers. Stilinski remembered having to repeat those same words to Stiles ( _it's not your fault..._ ) a good ten times over that night when he had got to the hospital to find that Claudia had slipped away and he was too late and Stiles had faced it all alone. And it had been somewhere around 3am when he had somehow got Stiles home and ready for bed that his son had finally answered him.

_"I know, dad. I know it's not my fault."_

Stilinski had the sinking feeling that Stiles had been lying to him then too.  


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

The Sheriff raised his head as he heard the front door creek closed. Stiles tiptoed through the kitchen, tentatively reaching for the fridge but he halted when he caught sight of his dad in the study. The table was piled high with the notes and files Stilinski had brought home from the office. But Stiles’ eyes settled on the substantially-drained bottle of Jack in the middle of that clustering paper and the empty tumbler glass that rested by his father’s elbow.

Stilinski was the first to break the silence between them.

“You’re supposed to be grounded. That means home straight after school, remember?”

Stiles winced. “I got detention,” he said by way of explanation.

Stilinski nodded slowly, deciding he was too drunk and weary to start yelling at Stiles for apparently not being able to stay out of trouble for even a day. Instead he looked to his wrist watch and then frowned again. Stiles sighed and lowered himself into a chair beside him.

“Detention till 9pm?” Stilinski shook his head. “And what was the reason this time?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “It was Harris, dad. You know he doesn’t need a reason. Plus he dictates how long I have to stay behind now. At this rate I may have to start taking a sleeping bag to school.”

“Right,” said Stilinski, not convinced but knowing that Harris was giving his son a hard time and that it might have more to do with his own dealings with Harris than his son’s behavior. “Well, I came home early...I needed some time to focus.”

And that was the Sheriff telling a lie of his own. The truth was he had been _sent_ home early because some representatives from the board had arrived at the station with _‘a little urgent matter’_ they wished to discuss with both his colleagues and Jackson’s attorney. They had all agreed that it would be easier to have this discussion if the Sheriff wasn’t present but they had promised to catch him up later in the week. And you betcha Stilinski knew what that meant and what it was all leading towards. He knew he might only have a matter of days left to solve this latest case, to justify his position as Sheriff and to hold onto his job. He needed this job, _damnit_ , he was a single parent with a screwball kid to support and he needed this job. 

Under the circumstances Stilinski realized reaching for the bottle had been a bad idea. Usually a nip of whisky helped to get the cogs turning, but he had filled his glass one time too many and lost all focus on the case. Instead of searching for patterns in the recent spree of murders, he’d been worrying over the disturbing patterns in his son’s behavior and his presence at far too many crime scenes for comfort.

Oh, the first incident wasn’t all that suspicious. Issac Lahey was a kid from Beacon Hills High, so naturally Stiles was curious about his arrest and he just happened to be snooping around the station at the time of the breakout. Fair enough. They had hand-waved Stiles involvement on that occasion since the imposter in the police uniform was of far greater concern.

But then there was Stiles stumbling on the mechanic's body at the garage, not all that long after he had been the one to find Lydia Martin after her attack. And once again, Stiles hadn’t seen the perpetrator or anything else that could give them a lead. When the paramedics had arrived on the scene they had found Stiles on the floor, struggling to stand, his legs weak and loose as spaghetti. Another panic attack Stiles had told them. So Stilinski had put that down to a coincidence too.

Then just a few days later Stiles and Scott happened to show up at the gay bar where Danny Mahealani and a number of other youngsters had suddenly collapsed, probably due to experimenting with some sinister new club drug ( _Oh God, could it be drugs?_ ). Stilinski had been prepared to believe the boys when they said they were simply at the bar trying to cheer up their friend, but then the following day there had been the stolen police transport van, the restraining order and his son and his best friend earning themselves a little juvenile record. Stiles had claimed it was a prank. And pranks? Pranks were fine. The County Sheriff’s Department had tolerated a lot of pranks from Stiles over the years because while his deputies often found the kid infuriating they also secretly thought he was hilarious. But none of them were laughing any more. If one’s an incident, two’s a coincidence and three’s a pattern, then when you added all these things up Stiles was looking more and more like a delinquent. And a lying delinquent at that.

“So did you at least manage to keep your distance from Jackson Whitmore today?” the Sheriff asked.

“Jackson?” said Stiles, raising his eyebrows as if he'd briefly forgotten who the kid was. “Hmn. Didn’t see him the entire day. Don’t think we even passed him in the halls.”

“And after school...” Stilinski continued, “...did you manage to get through your detention without any further incidents? I’m not going to find out that anyone was attacked or abducted from this detention, am I?”

“Nope,” said Stiles, a little too readily. “It was just in the library, stacking books on the shelves...couldn’t have been more tedious or uneventful. I barely managed to stay awake through it. So it's time for an early night, am I right?”

Before the Sheriff could move, Stiles snatched up the bottle of Jack, screwed its cap firmly back in place and took a step back from the table.

“Stiles...you give me that back,” he muttered irritably.

“I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?” said Stiles, his expression suddenly cold and serious.

The Sheriff slumped in his chair, feeling defeated. “Hell, maybe I should be pouring you a drink. How many glasses would it take for you to spill your guts, hey kid? Why can’t you just tell me the truth? What's going on with you, Stiles? Why don’t you feel like you can tell me? It hurts when you won’t talk to me, you know.”

Stiles didn’t answer. His lips were pressed tightly together as he returned the bottle to the liquor cabinet.

“Is...is it drugs?” Stilinski asked, thinking about the incident with that Danny kid. “Stiles, are you and friends taking drugs?”

Stiles shook his head, bristling with indignation. “You think all this time me and Scott have just been getting high? Are you seriously asking me this?”

“Well, what then?!” Stilinski snapped back, banging his fist on the tabletop. “Give me another explanation! I’m all ears.”

Stiles threw up his hands. “It’s werewolves, dad! Alright? All my friends are werewolves.”

He exhaled in irritation. “Kid...I’m in no mood for your sarcasm. I’m trying to be serious here.”

“No, you’re not! That’s the problem,” Stiles fumed. “You’re too drunk off your ass to take this seriously, dad. And I was going to tell you everything, I really was, but maybe...maybe you’re not ready to hear it. Not if you’re going to start doing this again.” Stiles pointed a finger towards the stairs behind them. “Go. Get to bed. Sleep it off.”

Stilinski’s jaw hung open for a moment as he wondered where Stiles got the nerve to order _him_ to go to his room. But when he rose to his feet to argue back he found the house was swaying and tilting under his feet. His stomach lurched; there was nothing in it but curly fries and onion rings. Lying down suddenly seemed like a very advisable idea. So he stumbled up the stairs with Stiles following his every step. He kicked off his shoes but otherwise didn’t bother to undress as he slumped down on his mattress.

Stiles emerged from the bathroom with a tall glass of water that he placed on the bedside cabinet.

“Be sure you drink all of that before you sleep,” he muttered.

Stilinski smiled at that. Stiles had saved him from many a hangover by keeping him hydrated after a little whisky binge. He was a good kid, really he was. So why did he seem like such a bad kid all of a sudden? The boy that he knew and the evidence that was mounting up, it just...it didn’t add up.

"Stiles...after school tomorrow," he began. "Don't come home. You come to the station instead."

He swallowed. "So you can keep an eye on me?"

"You'll be running some errands for your old man. I got a lot of work this week. Not a lot of time..." 

Stiles nodded and pulled a blanket over his father before leaving the room. The fight might have done them some good after all, the Sheriff reflected. At least Stiles had admitted that there was something he wasn’t telling him. Stilinski didn’t expect him to come clean about it anytime soon and now he had secrets of his own that he was keeping. If the board asked him to hand in his badge before the end of this week, then...then Stilinski didn’t like to think what it might do to his kid. He wouldn’t be able to say _‘It’s not your fault’_ this time.

No, neither of them could believe that lie anymore.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

The Sheriff sat beside his son in the crowded emergency room.

Apparently Beacon Hills memorial hospital had only been reopened a few hours ago following its evacuation two nights earlier. The facility was largely up and running again, with its returning patients being rushed back to their rooms on gurneys. There was still only a skeleton crew of doctors and nurses struggling to attend to the new surge of patients, most of them coming in with storm related injuries. It had taken almost an hour for the Stilinskis to just get a place to sit. Not that the Sheriff minded standing after almost three days of enforced sitting in that root cellar. The heavy jacket he wore covered the shallow stab wound in his chest while his sleeves were tugged down over the rope burns on his arms. He figured those wounds would heal up just fine on their own. It was his son that needed to be seen to.

“Dad, can we please just get home,” Stiles protested for the third time since they’d arrived. “I just want to sleep. We can come back tomorrow if you’re still worried.”

“Stiles, you have a head injury,” said Stilinski. “You’re not supposed to sleep with a probable concussion. We’re staying here till I can get you checked out by a doctor.”

Stiles sighed, dropping his face into his palms. Stilinski didn’t care if he was irritating Stiles with his perfectly valid concern. He needed to restore the balance here. He was the parent after all. He was the one who took care of his kid not the other way around. His son crashing his jeep into a tree...that was the sort of thing that Stilinski knew how to worry over. Maybe he still wasn’t ready to worry about werewolves and kanimas and dark druids and God only knows what else had been threatening his child’s safety in the past year. A simple car accident was enough. The everyday dangers of the world were still terrifying to him as a father.

The Sheriff rose to his feet, his eyes sweeping the hospital floor again, hoping to catch sight of a doctor who he knew the name of. Then maybe he could flash his badge, pull in a favor, get Stiles bumped up the waiting list...he could do that much for his son at least.

Stilinski clapped eyes on a face he recognized. But it wasn’t the face of a doctor. That new young deputy who he had hired just last week was standing by the reception desk. It was only then that it really occurred to the Sheriff that he had been missing from his post for three days and he had no cover story to explain his absence. Not one that he could tell the guys at the office anyway. He quickly sank back into his chair, grabbed a magazine from the nearest table and held it over his face.

“Aw, crap...” he hissed to Stiles. “Did he see me?”

“Who?” asked Stiles, raising his head. “Oh, is that one of your work buddies? Is he a new guy? Hmn. I guess I should’ve mentioned that this hospital is also kind of a crime scene. And yup...he’s coming over to us, dad. I’d say he definitely saw you.”

“I’ve been missing for three days! What the hell am I going to tell him?”

Stiles shrugged. “No worries. We’ll think of something...”

The Sheriff heard the footsteps approaching. He lowered the magazine, bracing himself and forcing a smile.

“Oh, hey there!” he blurted in greeting to the young officer who now stood before him with squinting curious eyes. “Parrish. It’s Parrish, right?”

“Sheriff Stilinski, what...what happened?” Parrish asked him.

“Well, my kid here ran his jeep off the road,” he explained, coiling an arm around Stiles and gesturing to the dry blood still staining his temples. “I don’t know what he was thinking driving in this weather we’ve been having. It's probably just a bump on the head and a little whiplash, but I thought I better...”

“No sir, I meant what happened to you?” Parrish interjected.

“Me?” Stilinski spluttered. “You’ve not all been worrying about me, have you?”

“Sir, your squad car was abandoned in the school parking lot on Thursday night,” said Parrish. “Nobody has been able to contact you since. You were declared officially missing. I...I think I need to take a statement explaining where you were.”

“Is that really necessary?” The Sheriff attempted a dismissive laugh. “I’d call that a bit of an over-reaction, wouldn't you Stiles?”

Parrish frowned. “Sir, Agent McCall said that your son had no idea of your whereabouts either.”

Stilinski winced. He had heard that Scott’s dad was among the FBI agents who were being brought in on the investigation and McCall was just about the last person who he wanted to answer questions from regarding his disappearance. He glanced to Stiles at a loss for what to say.

“Dad, come on,” said Stiles. “We have to tell him the truth.”

The Sheriff felt himself flinch. “The...the truth?”

Stilinski couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Since when did his son think that honesty was the best policy? Stiles let out an elaborate sigh and turned back to Parrish.

“The truth is that...my dad checked himself into rehab,” he said.

The Sheriff’s jaw fell open. He couldn't...he...he was going to kill Stiles this time, he really was.

“It was only a precaution,” Stiles went on explaining. “See, he’s been under so much stress at work, you know...especially after what happened to Tara. Did you know, Tara?”

Parrish swallowed. “No, but I...I believe I was hired as her replacement.”

“Um,” Stiles nodded. “Yeah...well, my dad took her death really hard. He felt himself reaching for the bottle, but he knew he couldn’t allow himself to lose control. So he...he booked himself into a centre for a few days. And not to detox, just to, um...get some counselling. It was more of a retreat really...lots of meditation, chanting...yoga...”

The Sheriff had no idea how his son came up with this stuff, especially when he had a likely concussion. He was still eyeballing Stiles in consternation when he realized that Parrish was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to confirm his son’s story. Stilinski hesitated but eventually forced a nod, even though he hated using Tara’s death as part of their lie, even though he didn’t want this new colleague thinking he had abandoned his post due to implied weakness and alcohol temptations. But it wasn’t as though Stilinski could think of a better lie on the spot. He had to leave this one to the expert.

“Anyway, after just two days the center sent him home,” said Stiles, wrapping up his latest piece of deceit. “They said my dad most definitely does _not_ have a drinking problem but he did the right thing by taking responsibility before he screwed up. And we're real sorry that we got everyone at the office so worried. That was my fault actually. I should’ve told you guys. We were just hoping that we could deal with this thing, um...discreetly.”

Parrish nodded. “No problem. I’ll tell Agent McCall that I’ve taken a statement and there’s no cause for concern. And I’ll ask the guys at the station not to bug you with questions, sir. We’ve got enough on our hands right now...you just see that your son’s okay, Sheriff.”

Parrish offered a reassuring nod before returning to the reception desk. Stiles beamed after him.

“He seems good,” Stiles smirked. “I like him.”

“Stiles, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Stilinski hissed.

Stiles flailed his arms. “What? I totally covered for you.”

“Well, I don’t appreciate you implying to my new deputy that I have a drinking problem. _Or_ that I practice yoga. And what if McCall finds out what you told him?”

“Scott’s dad thought you were drinking again anyway,” Stiles answered with a shrug. “So if that’s his assumption for why you went missing then it’ll be the easiest thing to get him to believe. Always play into assumptions, dad.”

“I see. And is that the sort of tactic you'd use on me?”

Stiles winked at him and smiled. “I’m not lying to you anymore, dad. You can ask me anything you want, I promise. No more secrets.”

Stilinski nodded. He had wanted to hear those words for so long. He only hoped he could believe them this time.

“Well...Melissa and Chris may have answered most of my questions during our stay in your magical Nemeton tree. We had rather a long time to talk things over. But I was kinda wondering how you managed to find us in that place. Do you mind telling me how you kids figured that one out?”

The smile froze on Stiles’ lips and suddenly he couldn’t hold his dad’s stare.

“That. Oh, um...that was Deaton really,” said Stiles. “You know how I told you he’s kind of a druid. Well, he got me, Scott and Allison to do a bit of druid magic and, well...because you guys are our guardians we all had this group vision thing and...and the vision told us where you were.”

Stilinski raised his eyebrows. “Druid magic? _Visions_? Stiles, you don’t mean...”

His son remained tight lipped so the Sheriff was forced to continue.

“...did Deaton get you kids to take _drugs?”_ he finished.

Stiles hung his head again. “Yeah, Deaton got us all to do drugs. Magical druid drugs. And we agreed to it and I’m sorry but...it was the only way to save you.”

The Sheriff sighed and wrapped an arm around Stiles’ shoulder once more. He was starting to realize that there was nothing that Stiles wouldn’t say or do to protect this secret supernatural world that he’d got caught up in. This world that Stiles loved just as much as he loved his old man. At least now he could take all the lies and the recklessness as evidence that the kid has his heart in the right place.

At least now he was finally in the know.


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

The Sheriff peered through the curtains of his front room. In the early morning light there were no signs of anyone lingering out in the street, but Stilinski thought he had heard motorcycles tailing them on their way home. He wouldn’t be surprised if there were werewolves watching their door right now. Maybe hunters too.

Stilinski had spent most of the night dealing with the aftermath of the bombing. The sun was starting to rise when he finally got away from the station. He’d gone straight to the animal clinic where most of the pack were gathered – Scott, Allison, Issac, those twins – all of them huddling around a desk where Stiles sat shivering and pale. The Sheriff could see that the pack were guarding Stiles, though he couldn’t quite tell if they were acting as protectors or captors.

At first he wasn’t even sure if they were going to be allowed to leave. But Deaton had intervened saying _‘Let his father take him home. He’s himself again...for now’_. Those weren’t the words of comfort the Sheriff had been hoping to hear. He was still waiting for someone to say that this nightmare was over. To say that it wasn’t even happening.

 _Please God_...don't let this really be happening to his kid.

Stilinski dropped the curtain and turned around. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Stiles stood beside the table, clutching a chair to keep himself upright.

“Dad, I...I remember everything,” he began numbly. “Everything that I did...that _it_ did. I had no control over my body, but I was still in there...still trapped inside my own mind. I was still seeing everything through my own eyes...like I was being forced to watch as it...”

Stiles shuddered, itching at his neck where Deaton had injected him with the lichen. The Sheriff reached out and gently took hold of Stiles’ wrist, worried his scratching would make the infection worse. _Infection_. Stilinski winced. This wasn’t an infection. _Possession_ , that was the word for it. The word he didn’t want to say...he was afraid to even think it.

“Stiles, talk to me. What has this thing been doing to you?”

His son's lips quivered. “It...it doesn’t sleep, dad. And it doesn’t eat anything but pain. It just spent the last two days setting up its tricks – posting a bomb to your office, hiding booby traps in the woods – then it set them all off while pretending to be me. All of that pain and all that chaos. It was a feast. It did all of that just so it could feed.”

The Sheriff was trembling too now, staring into his son’s wide bloodshot eyes. Deaton had done his best to explain the nature of these ancient fox spirits to him, but he still hadn’t truly understood what they were dealing with. Not until this moment.

“So this thing, this _Nogitsune_...” Stilinski stammered, trying to keep a hold of himself. “It was controlling you all that time? Stiles, when did you last have control?”

Stiles winced. “Before the MRI maybe? I think I was still mostly me then.”

He frowned. “Does that mean you haven’t slept or eaten since...”

Stilinski stopped mid-sentence and pulled Stiles through to the kitchen.

“Dad please...” Stiles protested, trying to yank himself out from his grasp. “Scott already tried forcing some food down me at the animal clinic and I couldn’t keep from puking. It’s like I told you, dad. It doesn’t need to eat, it just...”

“You need to eat!” The Sheriff seized his son by his upper arms. He felt how thin he was getting under his clothes. _“Jesus_ Stiles.”

Stilinski pulled his son into a hug. A real hug this time. Yesterday he had hugged Stiles’ body on the edge of those booby-trapped woods. But given what he had just been told...he hadn’t been hugging his son then. He had been hugging that evil insatiable _thing_ that had made Stiles a prisoner in his own mind. The thing that could still take his child away from again...that could trap him so deeply in his head that he might never get out again.

“Dad, let go,” said Stiles, softly at first, but he soon began to struggle against his hold. “Please you have to let go of me! You have to stay away. It’s not safe! I’m not...”

Stiles pushed away from his father’s chest, staggering back until he was pressed against the kitchen wall. Stilinski held out a calming hand, still reaching for his son.

“Stiles, it's okay. You’re _you_ again now. You’re here! Deaton said...”

“But we can’t know for sure!” Stiles rasped. “Dad, a few hours ago I almost cut my best friend in half. Deaton says he poisoned it but he doesn’t know how long the lichen will hold it off. It could be a week. It could be days. Or maybe just hours. We don’t know! So you have to stay away from me. You have to lock me up!”

“Stiles, just breathe,” he soothed, realizing his son was verging on one of his panic attacks. “We’re going to figure this thing out. Deaton and Chris Argent and Scott, they’re going to find a way to...to cure you. And until they find a cure I’m going to take care of you.”

“Dad, NO!” Stiles exploded. “You can’t. You have to lock me up!”

“Lock you up _where_ exactly?” he yelled back. “In _jail_?!”

Stiles slowed his breathing, sweat glistening on his brow. “That was my first plan actually. I thought maybe you could keep me in a holding cell. I thought it might have been the safest place. But...that was before it tried to blow up the Sheriff station.”

Stiles pinched his eyes closed, leaning his head back against the wall.

“It doesn’t want me getting arrested,” Stiles went on. “It needs me to run around and play its tricks. And it always makes sure to destroy any evidence I leave behind. Scott told me that the power surge at the hospital...it wiped all the security footage.”

The Sheriff considered this. “I...I might still be able to put together enough for a warrant. I could even fabricate some evidence if I needed to.” He couldn’t believe they were actually having this conversation. “There are witnesses that could place you at all the crime scenes.”

Stiles smiled weakly. “Dad, I’m always at all the crime scenes.”

“True,” he said, trying to smile back. “And it’s high time I arrested you for it.”

Stiles let out an empty mirthless laugh and then stepped forward, slowly closing the gap between them. 

"Dad, did you forget about the review board? I don't want to be the reason you get fired again."

"Stiles, the threat of impeachment has fallen rather low on my priority list. Do you think I really care about..." 

“I think you don’t have to risk your job,” Stiles interrupted. “Because I have Plan B.”

He took his dad by the elbow and led him towards the stairs. Stilinski reluctantly followed Stiles up to his bedroom, nervous over what the kid was going to suggest. He thought about the collection of chains and manacles that Stiles still kept under his bed, the ones he had bought for Scott when he was still struggling with his werewolf shift on full moon nights. Stiles loved Scott like a brother and evidently that meant he’d lock Scott up if he needed to. If that’s what it took to protect Scott from himself and to stop him from hurting others, then that’s what Stiles would do. Maybe the Sheriff could bring himself to do the same?

Stiles ducked under the web of red wool still stretching across his room and pointed to a newspaper clipping pinned to the sprawling crime collage on his walls. Stilinski stepped forward for a closer look. It was an article on Barrow and Eichen House.

 _Eichen House_.

“No,” he said firmly, before Stiles could even start. “Out of the question.”

“Dad, this place may be the best option we have left,” said Stiles, clearly just trying to be practical about this. “The security there is as close as we can get to a prison. But since I’m still a minor I won’t be able to volunteer myself for treatment. I'll need you to have me committed.”

“You think I’m going to put you in some nuthouse?!” he hissed. “No Stiles, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not again. You’ve gone missing on me twice in the last week. You think I can stand not knowing what’s happening to you? Not being able to _help_ you?”

“Dad, you've got to understand...if you really want to help me then you have to stay away. When this thing recovers from the poison and it wants to take control of me again it’ll do it by threatening to hurt the people I care about. That’s how it’ll break me down, alright? Dad...you know what I did to Scott. If I did that to you then you wouldn’t heal like him. That’s why I can’t be around you guys, okay? Scott or Melissa or Lydia...you all have to be far away from me.”

“Stiles, what about you?” said Stilinski, his heart thundering. “What if this thing tries to hurt you? What if it makes you hurt yourself and we’re not there to stop it!”

“You'll have lie, dad," said Stiles, offering up his trademark solution to everything. "You'll have to tell the doctors I...that I’m suicidal. It’s part of their job to keep mental patients from self harming, right? So they'll watch me and they'll stop me from doing anything to myself or to the other patients. And besides, it...it doesn’t want to hurt me. I’m the host, remember? It’s in its best interests to keep me alive and well.”

“Stiles, earlier this week this thing made you sleepwalk out into the woods on the coldest night of the year.” The Sheriff shuddered at the recent memory. “It took you all the way to that coyote den where Scott couldn’t track your scent. If we had been just a few hours late in finding you then you might have frozen to death. So don’t tell me that this thing isn’t a threat to your safety too...Stiles? Are you...?”

Stilinski noticed his son’s eyes darting to the corners of his bedroom, unable to meet his father’s stare. He knew from long hard experience that this squirrelly look was a telltale sign that Stiles had been caught in a lie. The Sheriff's heart sank, realizing what that lie was.

“Right, I forgot,” said Stiles, too abruptly. “I forgot that it did that.”

It all fell into place. Before the MRI Stiles was still mostly himself. It wasn’t the Nogitsune who had taken his son out to the coyote den where he might have died from hypothermia in the night. Stiles had taken himself out into the woods. He’d taken himself somewhere Scott couldn’t find him. Far enough away so that he couldn’t hurt any of them, even if it meant hurting himself instead. Stilinski didn’t call his son out on what he had done. He knew Stiles wouldn't admit to it anyway. And he had something far more important he needed to say to him.

“Son, you have to promise me something,” he began. “You have to promise me right now that you’re not going to give up hope. You hear me, kid? You _dying_ is not the solution to all this. Not for me and not for your friends. I need you to promise me that no matter how bad this gets...you won’t consider that an option. Because I sure as hell am not going to.”

Stiles nodded. “Okay, I promise,” he murmured, his voice too hollow to be fully sincere. Stiles sighed and lowered himself to sit on the edge of his bed. “But you know, dad...according to that MRI scan...I’m dying anyway, right?”

Stilinski’s heart clenched like a fist in his chest. He sat down on the bed beside Stiles, placing a gentle hand on his back. This time Stiles didn’t pull away from his touch, but instead let his head fall onto his father’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to believe that,” the Sheriff whispered. “For all we know, that MRI was just another trick. If it wiped out the security footage at the hospital, it could manipulate your tests results too, right? We just don’t know yet, Stiles. But I’m going to find out. I’ll take your scans to that doctor in LA, the one who recommend the best treatment for your mom. We’ll get a second opinion. We won’t give up hope, alright? Stiles, you can’t give up on yourself. And don’t feel that you have to...to _do_ anything to save us. We’re all going to work together to save you.”

Stiles didn’t say another word but the Sheriff felt him nod against his shirt. There were things that he wished that Stiles would say aloud to him. He wished his son could just admit that he was terrified, so that Stilinski could say he was scared to death too. But if they both gave in to being scared then there was no way that he could bring himself to commit his son to a mental institution. And with everything that Stiles had told him...Eichen House might be the only option they had after all.

The Sheriff sighed and pressed a hand to his son’s head. He prayed for it all to be over. He prayed for this not to be happening at all. Not to his kid.


	6. Chapter 6

**& 1.**

The Sheriff watched through the window of his squad car as the body bag was brought out of the school. He hadn’t seen the body itself, nor the crime scene where the shooting had taken place. Stilinski had let the FBI take charge of the _‘firearm discharge incident’_ as they were calling it. But he had to admit it felt good to see the bag and know the assassin zipped inside it was dead; that his was the only death of this long night’s quarantine and a death that might help Stilinski breathe a little easier in the days to come. For all the strange sinister creatures that he had encountered in the past few months, Stilinski still felt there was no monster in the world quite so terrifying as a madman with a gun in a school.

Stiles sat in the passenger seat, his dazed eyes staring only at the dashboard. They had been sitting in silence like this for the last ten minutes. From the moment Stilinski had found his son, stumbling up a corridor with Scott and Kira, he had been desperate to get him someplace quiet. And it hadn’t been easy. First there had been the CDC medics who had insisted on examining Stiles before he left the quarantine zone. Then there had been the FBI agents firing questions at his shell-shocked son and their forensics team asking to take his blood-spattered clothes. Stiles had gone through it all in a trance, barely able to form words besides _‘The ink, It was the ink...’_ and numbly requesting a cloth to clean his face.

The Sheriff had got Stiles to the car as fast as he could. He had draped his uniform jacket around his son’s shoulders and now he was simply waiting Stiles for speak, not wanting to pressure him. But _God_ it disturbed him to see the kid so silent and still.

“You want some water?” Stilinski asked when the quiet became too much for him.

He held out the bottle that one of the medics had handed him whilst recommending that all virus sufferers stay well-hydrated in the next twenty-four hours. Stiles didn’t so much as look at the proffered bottle. He didn’t answer; he didn’t even move. For a moment, Stilinski feared he might have fallen into a catatonic stupor. Then Stiles slowly shook his head.

“Stiles, drink it,” said the Sheriff, a little more forcefully. “You’re still running a fever.”

His son blinked as if waking up. “But the other kids were getting better.”

“Well, the other kids spent the night resting and being cared for by medics. _Drink_.”

The Sheriff unscrewed the top and pressed the bottle into Stiles’ hand. He noticed the slight trembling of his son’s fingers as he raised it to his lips. Stilinski knew that was often how trauma revealed itself. Not in hysterical emotional breakdowns but in these tiny nervous twitches that suggested something was seriously broken inside.

“Stiles...I understand you may not feel ready to talk about what happened yet,” he began. “But they’re going to need a witness statement from you very soon. McCall’s career is going to depend on you corroborating that he used necessary deadly force. So we’ll need to get your story straight for his sake. And do you realize this is the second time the man has saved your life? That means we might have to actually start being nice to him.”

Stilinski was trying to raise a smile, but he knew it was too soon. Bitching about McCall, his pomposity and his obnoxious tallness, had been a favorite pastime of theirs, but they really might have to give it up after what had happened in the night. When McCall had described to him how he had rescued Stiles from the assassin with barely a second to spare he could’ve kissed the man. But on the job shootings always threw up a major controversy for anyone working in law enforcement. The Sheriff owed it to McCall to set the record straight on this one.

Stiles finished draining the water bottle and took a ragged breath.

“Okay. So take me to the station. Let’s get this over with.”

The Sheriff squeezed Stiles’ wrist, proud of him for toughing it out.

“Do...do you want to talk it over with me first?” he asked.

Stiles nodded, then immediately looked hesitant. He wouldn’t be able to lie or deflect this time. He couldn’t deny the danger he’d been in or shield his father from its horrors. No, he couldn’t lie about this. And suddenly Stiles was like a superhero without his powers. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, seeming at a loss for where to start.

“So the virus was in the ink, huh?” said the Sheriff, trying to encourage him. “And you were the first one to make that connection. You know the FBI were seriously impressed, Stiles. I don’t know how you solved that one. You...you’re better at this than I am.”

Stilinski had often thought this, but he had struggled to admit it out loud. His son following in his footsteps was one thing; upstaging him was another. But it was the truth. He hoped that it might help Stiles to hear it now, though deep down he knew that his fatherly pride wouldn’t be enough make this process any easier. Stiles didn’t even react to his compliment. There was a hollow inconsolable look in his eyes, the sort of expression that Stilinski had often seen on the faces of young soldiers after they had returned from their first time out in the field. In his time in the army, the Sheriff had noticed that most young soldiers didn’t come back from combat missions feeling like heroes. They came back wondering why in the hell they had survived and whether it was because they had done something wrong.

“But it’s not the ink I’m supposed to talk about, right?” said Stiles.

The Sheriff winced. “You’ll need to tell them what happened in the locker room.”

Stiles took another breath, staring into mid-space and steeling himself.

“Not much to tell...” he began, managing to keep his voice even. “The guy had a gun pointed at my head and he wanted me to tell him where my friends were hiding. I tried feeding him a lie, but that...that didn’t work. And then he said he was going to kill me.” A tiny nervous laugh escaped from Stiles’ mouth. “Simple as that. He didn’t have an elaborate Bond villain monologue or anything. He just...he said he was going to kill me and then he started counting. So I...I didn’t have time to think up a plan. I didn’t know what to do. I just...I shut my eyes and I stood there because I didn’t know what else I could do.”

“It’s okay,” the Sheriff assured him. “It’s okay that you didn’t know.”

There was a waver in Stiles’ voice now and tears standing in his eyes. And suddenly the Sheriff was remembering the time that his friend Allison had broken down in the elevator. How the girl had cried on his shoulder and said she didn’t know what she was doing either. _Jesus_ , they were just kids. Kids that he was failing to keep safe. The Sheriff had hugged Allison and he had told her she was going to be okay. Then a few days later Allison was dead. She had been killed while trying to help her friends, just like Stiles would have been. She was another traumatized soldier. And God, they shouldn’t have to fight like this. They were too damn young.

“I guess...when the counting started I just froze and blanked out,” Stiles continued. “The next thing I knew there was a gunshot. And there was blood. And there was Scott’s dad standing there in a big yellow hazard suit. And the guy was dead on the floor.”

Hearing the end of the story Stilinski let out a sigh, the relief sweeping over him once more that McCall had acted fast and with precise aim. If it had been the Sheriff in that situation, seeing a gun aimed at his child’s head, he would have wanted to kill the man with his own bare hands.

“That should be enough,” said the Sheriff. “Is...is that all, Stiles?”

Stiles nodded rapidly, scraping the tears from his eyes with his jacket cuff. Stilinski patted his shoulder and then he took his keys from his pocket, ready to start the car so they could get to the station and set down an official record. Then it could all be over.

Suddenly Stiles’ hand reached out and seized his wrist.

“Dad, that’s not all...” he blurted out, his voice finally breaking. “I...I thought I was dead. The gunshot was so loud in my ears and the blood was so warm and I thought it must have been mine. I thought he had killed me, dad. But then I was somehow still alive and I was running for the vault and I...I thought I was too late. I couldn’t get inside and Scott wasn’t answering and I thought that he must have died in there. I thought they were all dead and it was all my fault because I’d got there too late and I just...I hated myself for not dying with them.”

“Stiles...” He reached out and pressed his palm to his son’s cheek, feeling the hot tears stream over his fingers. “It...it wouldn’t have been your fault. And you _did_ get there in time. You saved them. You’re all alive. And you’re...it’s going to be okay.”

It scared the Sheriff make this promise again. After what happened to Allison he knew how easily that promise could be broken. But what else could he say? He might tell Stiles that – if he wanted to – they could go home right now, they could pack up the jeep and they could drive all night. They could drive as far as they needed to away from Beacon Hills, far enough to keep themselves safe from the persistent dangers of this town. But he knew that Stiles would never leave Scott and their pack. After what his son had done that night it would be insulting to even suggest it. 

“No, it’s not going to okay,” Stiles sobbed, still distraught. “Because now Malia has seen the list and she won’t talk to me and she...she’s probably going leave. She’ll probably run back to the woods to live as a coyote and I’ll...I’ll never see her again.”

Stilinski blinked at this last confession. His son hadn’t spoken to him much about this were-creature girl who always seemed to be in Stiles’ room even when she didn’t come in through the front door. He knew there was something more than friendship between them, but he couldn’t have said how strong those feelings were until he heard the heartbreak in his son’s voice. Maybe Stiles was only realizing his feelings for this girl now? Only discovering that he might love her in the same moment he feared he had lost her...on this night when he had almost lost everything.

“Why is Malia not talking to you?” the Sheriff asked him.

Stiles sniffed, wiping his face again. “Because I lied to her,” he said.

The Sheriff sighed. Yes, of course. What else would it be?

“Come on, give her time,” he said. “If this girl cares about you, Stiles, if she _knows_ you, then I think you two will be just fine. And seriously kiddo, If there are no more secrets between you now then...then this could be the moment when it all starts getting better.”

Stilinski didn’t need to add the words... _like it got better for us_. He could see in Stiles’ face that he understood. That he knew his father had forgiven him for every lie he ever told in spite of how much some of those lies had hurt. Sometimes the truth hurt just as much. But it was only through telling it that they could finally start to breathe again.


End file.
